“I’ll try, Alan,” said I.
“And now for him of the red head,” says he; “was he gaun fast or slow?”
“Betwixt and between,” said I.
“No kind of a hurry about the man?” he asked.
“Never a sign of it,” said I.
“Nhm!” said Alan, “it looks queer. We saw nothing of them this morning on the Whins; he’s passed us by, he doesna seem to be looking, and yet here he is on our road! Dod, Davie, I begin to take a notion. I think it’s no’ you they’re seeking, I think it’s me; and I think they ken fine where they’re gaun.”
“They ken?” I asked.
“I think Andie Scougal’s sold me—him, or his mate, wha kennt some part of the affair—or else Chairlie’s clerk callant, which would be a pity too,” says Alan; “and if you askit me for just my inward private conviction, I think there’ll be heads cracked on Gillane Sands.”
“Alan,” I cried, “if you’re at all right, there’ll be folk there and to spare. It’ll be small service to crack heads.”